If You Run
by Brilliantim
Summary: John's life haven't been the same since Sherlock died, and decides to go back into war so that he might have something to live  or die  for again. But what happens when Sherlock finally returns to 221b and realizes what John has done? Hope you'll enjoy!
1. Prologue

**Author's Note: Hi my lovelies! Since I've been totally captured by BBC Sherlock, this little idea for a fic popped into my head and hopefully you will enjoy it. If it turns out as well as I want it too, I think it has great potential. But that is up to you to decide. I'm rating it M because I am fairly sure it will happen later on in the fic, and there might be small fragments of smut here and there before that. We'll see ;) Just know that you have been warned. I will put warnings for every individual chapter if it is needed! **

**I love you guys so so so much and I really hope you will enjoy this! **

***Less than three* **

_I'm always here  
>Waiting for you all alone<br>Eyes of the night  
>Just to see, see you home<em>

_. . ._

**Prologue**

The silence was eerie on 221b Baker Street. If a stranger had entered the small flat that had once belonged to the odd couple that was Holmes and Watson, they wouldn't have known that one of them still remained. John Watson sat sunken in his armchair, a cup of tea resting on his left thigh as his eyes vacantly stared at the armchair opposite him. Sherlock's chair. John had thought of moving his own armchair, since this was basically what happened every time he sat down, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. It was supposed to stand there, opposite Sherlock's. Those armchairs represented the two of them, so different but always close to each other. John actually hadn't been able to get rid of much of Sherlock's stuff, that felt like something you did when you'd finally gotten over someone, and John was nowhere near letting go of Sherlock.

In the beginning it had all hurt so much, just walking in through the door had been painful, knowing that he wouldn't be greeted by gunfire or a moody comment about his ridiculous choice of clothes. When he'd boiled enough water for two cups of tea automatically, only to realize he shouldn't do that anymore. When he wasn't woken up at three in the morning by Sherlock talking to him from the room nearby and expected him to answer. Nowadays, he was just numb. He stared at things a lot, he talked very little. If by rare chance he laughed, it never quite reached his eyes. It was like all the joy he'd ever felt had disappeared with Sherlock. He'd not only been the best friend John had ever had, he'd also brought new life to John's boring existence. They'd hunted down criminals together, they'd been saving lives. That was what John wanted most of all and that had been snatched away too when Sherlock died. He himself had only been allowed to do it was because he was friends with Sherlock and he wasn't nearly clever enough to continue the work on his own. He went back to work at the hospital, but he was never assigned any serious work. This was probably because he seemed unable to lead a surgery. Maybe he was. It had been nearly two years and John still had trouble sleeping at night.

Mycroft came over for a cup of tea that evening (making it John's fourth cup of the day). He liked stopping by and John had stopped minding. At first he'd been more than resentful, blaming Mycroft for all that had happened. But he'd seen the regret and shame in Mycroft's face every time he stepped into the flat and he had forgiven him. After all, John had lost his best friend, but Mycroft had lost his little brother.

They chatted for a little while, Mycroft asked how John was doing and John answered the same way he always did; with a shrug of the shoulders. What was he supposed to say? That he just didn't care about anything at all, that it was all just nonsense now because when you'd lived a life with Sherlock Holmes in it, your life automatically became extremely dull when he was gone. John didn't really understand why Mycroft bothered coming around. It couldn't be much fun being around John so if it was company he was looking for, he could have easily found someone else. Maybe he just wanted to be in the place where his brother had lived and breathed, to be reminded of him and his quirks. Maybe it was the fact that John was the only person apart from Mycroft that grieved Sherlock in silence. If he had turned to Mrs. Hudson, she would've cried throughout the whole meeting and Mycroft's relationship with Lestrade was rather tense for some reason. John was probably the best he could get. So they met up for a cup of tea now and then, sat there in quiet and it was all fine.

John escorted Mycroft down the stairs when he was leaving because he needed to fetch the post, which had gathered there for two or three days.

"It was good to see you again John." Mycroft said and nodded as he left. It was rather unnerving to have Mycroft be this nice and friendly and John thought it was very sad that it had taken the death of Sherlock for his brother to soften. He grabbed the post and ascended the stairs to take his seat in his armchair once more. He flickered through the envelopes, not finding anything remotely interesting when a folder caught his eye. It was dark blue and with an official print it reminded him that "The British Army always needs another soldier!". John stared at it with an incredulous look. He kept staring at it throughout the day where he had placed it on the kitchen table, not quite sure if he should just throw it away or not.

He went to bed that night with an idea so ridiculous he shouldn't have even considered it. But he did. After all, the problem with his leg had been eliminated since long back and he could hardly remember ever being shot in the shoulder, that's how little pain he suffered from it. Surely he was fit enough to rejoin? Maybe returning to war would make him feel a little more alive? Because right now, John could see no light at the end of his tremendously long tunnel. If he was out in field again he'd get the adrenalin rushes he dreamt of, he would be able to save people again. He would actually do some good, even if it meant him dying for it. Wasn't it better to die from saving lives than slowly decaying in an old armchair? The big question was; could he leave 221b behind, with all its memories?

By morning, the decision had been made. John H. Watson would be returning to Afghanistan.

_I'm always here  
>All alone without you now<br>Lights of the night  
>Just to see you somehow<em>

_**- If You Run, The Boxer Rebellion**_

**Author's Note: Soooo, I hope you liked this short prologue and that you want to continue reading. Chapter 1 will be up and published in no time, as long as someone shows interest for this story! You are the best for reading this and I love you all so much. If you want to follow me on tumblr, don't hesitate; benedictsvoice(dot)tumblr**

**If you liked this and want more, it would mean the world to me if you slipped in a review.**

**See you soon my darlings!**


	2. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: Hey my darlings :3 Well aren't you just a lovely bunch. I was only met with optimism at my little prologue and therefore I have now finished chapter 1. Things are already starting to heat up. Hihi, I hope you will like this! I don't know how happy I am with it, but as long as you guys like it, I can survive. Happy reading :3**

**. . . . .**

_I wake up, it's a bad dream,_

_No one on my side,_

_I was fighting_

_But I just feel too tired_

_to be fighting,_

_guess I'm not the fighting kind._

**Chapter 1**

It was a few minutes past midnight when the cab pulled up outside of 221b. Sherlock Holmes got out and stared up at his former home, his stomach in uproar. It really was utterly ridiculous that he should feel as nervous as he did, he was never nervous. Yet it felt as if the small amount of food he'd managed to squeeze in during the day suddenly wanted to occupy the pavement. He swallowed hard, putting a shaking hand in his coat pocket. He quietly reprimanded himself for being such an idiot, something he never thought would occur, and made for the front door. He did have his keys still, but he figured John would think he was a burglar and either call the police or beat him up. He might still beat him up of course, but if that happened, it wouldn't be nothing Sherlock didn't deserve. After all, he could have returned a long time ago, but he'd been to much of a coward to do it. With a sigh, he rung the doorbell and waited. When he didn't hear anyone moving inside, he placed his finger on the doorbell and held it in for ten seconds solid. That ought to wake him up, Sherlock thought and chuckled nervously. But when no one came to open the door after Sherlock had impatiently waited over five minutes, he brought the key out from his pocket and let himself in.

The flat was cold and dark and Sherlock felt a chill traveling down his spine as he stepped on a small pile of mail. Something was wrong here, something had changed. Not only two weeks ago, Mycroft had informed him that John still resided at 221b and that he had been alright. Then why did Sherlock get the feeling that the flat had been empty for years? Sherlock stood frozen in the darkness for a long time, staring up the stairs of which he could only make out the contours, gathering the courage to climb them. Slowly, he made his way upstairs and took a deep breath as he reached for the light switch and flipped it. The sudden light made him flinch and he had to blink a couple of times before he could fix his eyes upon the room. It was as though he had never left. John hadn't changed anything at all, even some of Sherlock's mess was still there. Maybe this should have been flattering but Sherlock could only feel sadness, imagining John sitting in his armchair, broken down with grief and not willing to change anything for fear of forgetting.

He walked around the flat for a while, not knowing if he wanted to disturb John while he was sleeping. Apparently he was sleeping rather heavily since the doorbell hadn't awoken him, but that didn't seem like the John he knew. Perhaps he wasn't there. Maybe he'd found himself a woman and was sleeping there for the night. Sherlock tried to ignore the uncomfortable feeling in his gut as he imagined it and decided to delete it from his hard drive. He paced back and forth impatiently, trying to make up his mind as if to open the door to John's bedroom or not. Wouldn't it be very rude to wake him if he was sleeping? Then again, if he was sleeping that heavily Sherlock would probably not wake him and he could relax, knowing that John was safe. Just seeing John's face again was something he'd wanted for a very long time. He was just about to make it to John's bedroom when he noticed something on the kitchen table. Immediately the situation became clear, although he did not want to believe it. Knowing that John wouldn't there but wanting to be absolutely sure, Sherlock burst into the doctor's bedroom. Of course he wasn't there. He hadn't been for at least one week considering the pile of post that he had stepped in on his way into the flat. Trying not to panic, Sherlock brought out his phone from his trouser pocket.

_Afghanistan or Iraq?_

-SH

It took less than a minute for Mycroft to reply.

**I guess you are back then.**

-MH

_That isn't of importance. Tell me where he's gone._

-SH

**Don't do anything stupid now, Sherlock.**

-MH

_Where is John?_

-SH

The phone rang suddenly and Sherlock picked up reluctantly. He wasn't in the mood for talking with anyone, let alone Mycroft, but he knew he'd never get any information unless he picked up.

"Hi little brother" Mycroft's voice sounded almost amused.

"It's Afghanistan right? It would make more sense that he would want to return to something than start something new. Also it's more likely that they would accept him if they already knew of his competence since he's been injured." Sherlock was thinking out loud, waiting for Mycroft to confirm it.

"Yes, he returned to Kabul, Afghanistan about a week and a half ago. He left no message to anyone, we were worried."

"You were worried?" Sherlock said disbelievingly, his voice as cold as ice.

"If you had seen the state of the man Sherlock, you too would have been worried if he suddenly disappeared. I've grown quite fond of the man, oddly enough." Sherlock tried to ignore the stabbing sensation in his chest as Mycroft mentioned "the state of the man", as if John had been suicidal or something of the like. Why did he care so much that Sherlock was gone? It was a mystery. He had never really understood how John had put up with all his oddities, they would have cracked any other man. But John had stood there by his side, all along, always the solid rock in Sherlock's storm of mood swings and temper tantrums.

"I must leave at once then" Sherlock replied, ignoring the odd expression of affection he'd just heard his brother utter, "I cannot have John get shot in some dessert simply because he had nothing better to do."

"I do not think that was the case Sherlock." Mycroft sighed at the other end of the line. Since when had he gotten so soft? Caring wasn't an advantage, that's what he'd told Sherlock all his life, and now it seemed as if the man had stared caring a whole lot.

"It doesn't matter. I must find him and take him home. Do tell Mrs. Hudson to keep the flat for us until we both return."

"Sherlock I do not think this is a very good idea. You will be in mortal danger." Mycroft sounded genuinely worried. His behaviour was so odd that Sherlock nearly had an urge to laugh, but he kept his calm.

"Whenever am I not, brother dear. I _will_ return, and I will return with John Watson by my side. Good night and good bye." Sherlock hung up before Mycroft could utter another word. As much as it amused him that Mycroft had developed _feelings_, it also made him rather uneasy.

Sherlock who had been standing in John's darkened room while he was talking to his brother, hastily exited it quickly and sat down in his armchair, resting his chin onto his fingertips. Yes, he would travel to Afghanistan with the first flight he could find. He would find the Army base camp and enquire for doctor Watson. They would surely know whom he meant and if they didn't he could surely make Mycroft gather the information for him. Mycroft had strings to pull everywhere, which often proved necessary, even though Sherlock tell Mycroft what an asset he could be. After finding out where John was, it would be an easy task to get him back home. He simply wouldn't accept no for an answer. John needed to be at 221b Baker Street with Sherlock, nothing else would do. Also, Sherlock was terrified. Terrified that John would get hurt. Not by a silly bullet to the shoulder but life and death hurt. The only reason Sherlock had been able to stand being away from John for so long while Moriarty's men where being eliminated, was that he'd known that John was alive and well. That in their flat, John still breathed the air they had once shared and that was all that mattered. It was not knowing where John was, of he was well, that made Sherlock's stomach turn with fright. He flipped out his phone and started searching for flight to Afghanistan. He had to find John, there was not a moment to lose.

**. . . . .**

"WATSON, GET IN LINE!" Sergeant Mackay roared as the new recruits were gathering on the outskirts of base camp. John knew Mackay from his earlier service and was happy to see that the man had survived this long, considering the man had no inhibitions whatsoever out on the battlefield. Mackay probably didn't know any of the other's names yet and it showed authority to have the soldiers listening to your command. Therefore, John clicked his heels together and put his hand to his hairline, a slight smile at the corner of his lips.

"YES SERGEANT. SORRY SERGEANT." he yelled and Mackay pursed his lips in an attempt to hide his smile.

"There boys, that's how a man behaves around here when he gets an order. Now I want you to do fifty laps around camp and then come back here. UNDERSTOOD?"

"YES SERGEANT!" the boys yelled in unison and began to run for all they were worth. John was just about to get going when Mackay called for him to join him. John quickly jogged up to his old friend who roughly grabbed his hand and shook it hard before pulling him into a bear hug.

"Ahh Watson! Aren't you a bit old for this now, eh?" he laughed a booming laugh that made John's ears ring a little bit as he pulled away.

"Nah, I'm fit as a fiddle." John smiled and flexed his bicep to prove it. Mackay chuckled.

"You look like shit old man." he stated, laughing as he hit John hard over the upper arm jokingly.

"Nice to see you too, you damn tosser!" John had forgotten just how much he had missed Mackay and his constant laughter. He had never met a man as cheerful and optimistic and God knows a man like that was needed in a sad place like this.

"Yes yes, well start running. I don't have time to stand here and chitchat." he joked and winked, reminding John of the first time he'd met Sherlock and he quickly ran off so that Mackay wouldn't see his face fall. Why did it have to be so hard? Why couldn't the memories fade just a little bit so that he could have some peace? It was all he asked for.

The next day, after nearly fainting because of hard work and sweat constantly trickling down his neck into his clothes, Mackay ran up to him and asked if he wanted to come with him to the local pub. John immediately accepted, thinking that a pint or two was just what he needed right now. They set off at around eight, traveling in a small car while Mackay told John stories about what had happened since he'd been sent home. Most of John's mates were dead or had simply disappeared. It was only Mackay and two others from their original group that was still alive and neither of them were still here. The pub was a small place, but it wasn't crowded. John suspected most people were either too nervous to come out this time of day, or it was simply because it was a Tuesday. Either way, they both got pretty drunk after Mackay challenged John to a round of "who can down most pints in one minute". John lost, managing only two and a half while Mackay managed five before he looked as if he was gonna throw up and banged the glass down on the table with a loud thump. John found himself genuinely laughing for the first time in years and was sad to leave the pub when they closed at 2AM. The two men stumbled outside, laughing at nothing in particular when suddenly John felt a hand close itself over his mouth as another strong hand forced his arms together behind his back and held him in a tight grip. John could make out a muffling noise behind him, so it seemed they had attacked Mackay too. He made a feeble attempt to free himself, but it was useless. His mind was too much poisoned with alcohol to be of much use and his limbs just wouldn't listen to what he was ordering them. He tried screaming but the man who was holding him dug his nails deep into John's cheek, effectively silencing him. With panic he saw that the men were forcing them towards a big van that was parked a few feet away and when they reached it someone hit him hard in the head, successfully putting him to a drunken sleep.

_Wouldn't mind it_

_if you were by my side_

_But you're long gone,_

_yeah you're long gone now._

_**- A Bad Dream, Keane**_

**. . . . .**

**Author's Note: Sooooo, what do you think guys. What's gonna happen to John? What will Sherlock do when he arrives in Kabul and John isn't there? It's all very exciting isn't it? At least I hope it is, so that you will continue reading! Hihih. If you liked it it would be so wonderful if you wanted to leave a review. They are quite the motivators you know. **

**ALL MY LOVE, UNTIL NEXT TIME. **

***Less than three***


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